


Black Honey

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College age Sansa, Daddy Kink, F/M, Sugar Daddy, and some other things i haven't figured out yet, posting chapter 1 now and the rest....eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: “Oh, Sansa. Did you just stumble yourself across a sugar daddy?”





	Black Honey

**Author's Note:**

> [I’m actually surprised I /haven’t/ written a sugar daddy fic yet, like what???
> 
> So here’s the intro to whatever it will evolve into. I hope it turns into something good, but the least I can do is be as shameless as possible ;) ]

              “What’s that?”

              Sansa slammed her hand down atop the table, the damning packet nearly slipping from her fingers as she scrambled to shove it back into her pockets. She knew she shouldn’t have looked at it while she was still at work. She knew she should have just torn it up, thrown it away; there, done. But Sansa couldn’t _not_ think about it, and the man, and the whole implication of the little damning packet sitting atop two crisp twenties. The family was gone by the time realization hit her, and she couldn’t do anything else but shove it in her apron and clear the table. It was a slow process: she kept checking her pocket in case it fell out, or if it was secretly a signal saying _look over here, look at this wretched girl!_

              The gods were against Sansa as the packet slipped onto the floor. Sansa moved quickly. Myranda was quicker. The packet in one of her friend’s hand while the other fended Sansa off. “It’s nothing, just trash,” Sansa said quickly (too quickly), praying Myranda wouldn’t flip it over. _For the love of the gods, please don’t turn it around_.

              It was only a packet of sugar meant for teas and coffees, nothing at all _unique_ . It was just an ordinary packet...save for the phone number written on the other side. Myranda heard Sansa’s unuttered pleas and flipped it around. Her eyes narrowed first, just like Sansa not ten minutes ago. Then widened in understanding, just before her mouth twisted into a wicked smile. “ _Oh_ , Sansa. Did you just stumble yourself across a _sugar daddy_?”

              “Not so gods-damned loud,” Sansa shushed her, lunging again for the packet. She grabbed it this time, but the damage was done — her friend didn’t put up a fight.

              Myranda knew.

              And Myranda — being Myranda — was not going to shut up about it until Sansa told her every little thing.

              “After work,” Sansa hissed, the doors to the gallery swinging open. A server stepped through with an empty tray, looking as exasperated as Sansa felt.

              “Fine,” Myranda hissed back. The smile had yet to leave her face; like a lion or a shark, with the promise of a fat, bloody chunk of meat. “But you better tell me _everything_.”

               _As if I’ve a choice now_.

* * *

              “Spill it, girl.”

              Sansa had been regretting this moment all vening. She tried to sneak past Myranda on her way home, going so far as planning a reason why she had to leave ( _had to pick something up from the bookstore, and also my mom called, and then I lost the key to my bike lock, oh and—)_

              “Sansa.”

              Myranda was nipping at a hangnail, her gaze fixed on Sansa. She was ruthless when it came to gossip, something that made their days at uni considerably more fun. Sansa never thought there would be so much _drama_ had it not been for Myranda’s cheeky stories of who was doing whom, and where, and why, and the ensuing breakups and get-back-togethers. Her freshman year, by comparison, was tame, when Helena claimed she kissed their very young and very cute writing professor. Sansa was only jealous for a month.

              Sansa sighed. “It’s really nothing, Randa.”

              “Nothing?”

              “I mean…”

              Myranda grew bored with her hangnail just then. “You go out to serve a table, and come back with a _very_ _inconspicuous_ packet of sugar with a _very_ _inconspicuous_ phone number written on it. Which was sitting _on top of_ a rather huge tip.”

              “Forty dragons isn’t _that_ huge…”

              “At least we know he’s got the money to pay ya.”

              “Randa.”

              “Was he cute?”

              “I… I didn’t look.”

              Her friend gave her a look, _the_ look. The _you-know-exactly-what-I’m-talking-about-and-you’re-trying-too-hard-to-pretend-like-you-don’t_ look.

              Sansa bit her lip. “I mean...maybe…”

              “Then what’s the problem?” Myranda said, by way of assuming the mysterious _sugar daddy_ being cute was all that was needed for a lurid affair. “What else do you need besides hot and rich?”

              “I _mean_ ,” Sansa continued, ignoring Myranda, “he has a _wife_ . And a _son_. And as much as you love drama, I don’t want to think what would happen if the wife found out about me.”

              “Then don’t get caught.”

              Sansa rolled her eyes. “Easier said than done.”

              “I’d beg to differ.”

              She looked at her friend. “And _you’ve_ had a sugar daddy before?” The phrase felt clunky coming from her mouth. The two of them were the same age, though Myranda certainly had more experience with relationships — sometimes more than Sansa thought was possible. Albeit, most of them were just one-night stands, but it still stacked against Sansa’s two boyfriends, neither of whom did more than kiss and grope and complain when Sansa wouldn’t put out on the first date. She’d yet to go on a second date: bit of a leap between that and...this.

              “No,” Myranda admitted, combing her fingers through her wild hair. The wind was a monster today, and it was only going to get worse as the storm neared. “But, if I had the chance to have a sugar daddy — who’s cute, remember you said that? ‘cause I’m not gonna let you forget — then I’d jump on that man’s bones in a heartbeat. The money’s just an added bonus.”

              “Here.” Sansa moved to the counter, fishing through her purse. She found that damned packet hiding at the bottom beneath her wallet. It sailed through the air of her apartment, but wholly missed the target of Myranda’s face. “You take it then.”

              Myranda gave her another look. She scooted over on the couch, reaching for the sugar with her sock. “Except I wasn’t serving his table. Maybe he’s got a thing for red-heads. Maybe he wants to see how your mouth looks wrapped around his cock. Either way, he left it for _you_.”

              Sansa knew that, and she wished for the hundredth or thousandth or millionth time that she threw the blasted thing in the trash.

              She had sussed the table up as she approached them, hoping they wouldn’t be as demanding as the table she’d had the night before. That lady was so particular about her food Sansa wondered if her own smile was obviously fake to them as her food was obviously exactly what she ordered. (Myranda said Sansa’s been _this close_ to murdering the whole table with her bare hands). Tonight she watched her newest table: the mother hanging onto the father’s arm as though she was afraid he would disappear in a moment; their son holding a tablet with a children’s show of knights and dragons playing. One of the cheesy ones that ended each episode with _Friendship is all the magic you need_. He was small, but his voice cracked with puberty as he tried to get his mom’s attention. The mom, meanwhile, was trying to devour her husband’s face. And the husband relented in short bursts of touches and kisses (at least he understood how excessive their PDA was).

              Until Sansa approached. Then his gaze fell wholly on her, forgetting the woman beside him (and his son sitting opposite, and the ring on his finger glinting in the light). He shamelessly took in Sansa in her uniform, letting his eyes stay on her legs (she told herself it was her legs and not her—)

              Then he looked up to her face, his eyes shadowed, and smiled at Sansa, acting the perfect husband and father through the meal.

              He _was_ cute, Sansa conceded, and knew she _should_ be creeped out by him. There were faint wrinkles around his eyes. His hair was streaked with grey — old enough to be her father — and his family sat beside him (or, when Sansa asked about dessert, _on top_ of him. He kissed his wife to please her sickly insinuation of who was dessert, and he relented in buying his son the child’s sundae). And yet — with a wife glued to him, with a wife kissing him and adoring him like she would literally die without him — he devoured Sansa. His eyes were on Sansa each time she approached their table. His eyes were on her when he was being kissed and fondled. Even when Sansa was addressing other families, his gaze was heavy over her, and maybe it _was_ just her imagination feeling the weight of his stare on her face, her legs, her butt. Maybe he was playing the loving father for some shameless reason: he got her knocked up and was too gentlemanly to leave her alone with their child; or she was loaded and he was biding his time (that was the plot to a movie, Sansa remembered); or...some other absurd reason. It wasn’t Sansa’s business, she only had to wait their table and smile like she did with the hundreds of tables before them.

              And he certainly wasn’t the first — or the last — to creep on the servers.

              Nothing would come from _this_ anyways, she told herself. The attention was nice, and he was handsome enough, and she was never going to see him again. He might see _her_ , when he went home and closed his eyes and did...that. Myranda put _that_ idea in her head weeks ago, when a cute upperclassman did the same as this man: staring at her, warming her up with smiles and trying to brush his hand against hers whenever Sansa reached over to fill up his glass. “Bet you he’s going straight to the bathroom and jacking off to you right now,” Myranda had said when Sansa ringed him up. Sansa hit her friend’s shoulder, not without blushing, That boy never stopped around again, to Sansa’s inner disappointment.

              She thought the same with this man. Sansa was fodder for his dreams. Maybe something else, when he had to deal with his wife later that night once they put their son to bed.

              Sansa wasn’t going to see him again.

              Until she saw his number, and her heart practically fell down her chest and out her skirt. She swore she heard it _ba-dump_ ing its way across the floor.

              Nothing would come from his heavy stares and sweet smiles...not unless she called him about his offer. If it was an offer? Maybe he had nothing else to write his number on?

              “LIke he didn’t have a scrap or an old receipt,” Myranda answered.

              Sansa startled, realizing she’d asked out loud.

              Myranda gave up reaching for the sugar, flopping back into the softness of the cushions. “Tell me one reason — just one — why you shouldn’t at least say _hello_ to the guy?”

              “He has a wife and kid.”

              “Something else.” Myranda waved away that fact as though it was minor, and not something actually momentuously huge. “We’ve already established he’s taken. Which, by the way Sans, is more reason to get _into_ it. Nothing serious, and you can leave when you’ve sucked him dry.”

              Sansa left the double entendre hanging in the air.

              “He’s...old.” It came out more like a question.

              “So? Older guys and ladies know what they’re doing better, by and large.” Myranda motioned _another_.

              Sansa turned to grab a glass of water, hoping it would ease the blush she felt rising up her face. “He’s...probably a creep, hitting on a girl while she’s working.” Some guys did that. They had a friend, Melyssa, who was hounded by another student when she worked at the coffee shop in the drama building. He waited for her at the tables, watching her during her entire shift, and sneaking out back to offer a walk home when she was done. Melyssa changed up her schedule (even if it made running to class tight), but he found her each time. She was too shy and polite to tell him off or to tell her boss.

              Melyssa finally relented to a date. _One date, and that’s it_ , she told him. One date, and he beat her up when she didn’t agree to going to his place afterwards.

              Myranda was thinking about Melyssa, too (who was fine, though she didn’t work at that coffee shop again). “Devil’s advocate, I know. But he didn’t hit on you when you were working. He didn’t touch you or anything, right? Or make any sort of pass?” Sansa shook her head. “Right. He did it after, with the sugar. And he’s letting _you_ decide to call him up, instead of demanding anything else from you. Sure, maybe he’ll show up again, but we don’t know right now. So, I hate to be _that person_ , but that’s better than some actual creeps.”

              “I guess...” Myranda had a point, in a way, and Sansa didn’t like that she was agreeing with her.

              “Here.” Myranda stood up, handing her phone over. “Text him on mine. He won’t have your number if he _is_ a creep. I’ll deal with him if he is though.”

              Sansa stared at the phone. “How?”

              She didn’t see it, but Sansa knew Myranda winked. “I’ve got my ways. And, honestly, if you _really_ didn’t want to do this deep down in that soft, squishy heart of yours, you would have thrown the sugar away already.”

              Sansa didn’t reply because she knew her friend was right. At least, a little bit. More than Sansa would dare admit with her voice.

              “Thanks,” she said, taking Myranda’s phone. Sansa unlocked it (they knew each other’s passwords, only so they could deal with texts and calls if the other was preoccupied (it was usually Myranda _preoccupied_ )). Myranda handed Sansa the sugar next, and Sansa looked at it. She recognized the area code: it was a local number.

              “Are you really making me do this…” Sansa muttered, carefully typing in each digit.

              Myranda pursed her lips, not saying what Sansa knew she was thinking: _I’m not making you do anything you don’t already want to do. You just wanted someone to tell you yes or no._

               _And secretly you wanted someone to say ‘do it’._

              Sansa told her brain to shut up.

              “Is this really a good idea,” Sansa mumbled, thumbs hovering over the screen. She looked up at Myranda.

              Her friend shrugged. “I see it going either way. One,” she held up one hand, palm up. “Everything’s good. He’s cute, and charming, and _really_ good in bed.” Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, hoping it would keep her from blushing. “That, and he’s got _money_ . You get to pay off student loans and tuition for a little something-something, plus getting laid does wonders. Win-win. Two,” she held up her other hand, like a set of scales. “He _is_ a creep. I’ll trick him — with things I wouldn’t dare ruin your sweet innocent brain with — and blackmail him with the fear of telling his wife. He pays up for that information. A nice, _hefty_ sum. We split the money, pay off our student loans, and find you another pretty face who’ll eat you out.”

              Sansa held back a shocked _Myranda!_ and instead weighed her friend’s options.

              Put like that, it didn’t sound… _too_ bad. If things _did_ go south with this mysterious man (of whom, Sansa didn’t catch the name. She knew their son’s name was Robin, but that was all), then Myranda was there to help her out. But if things _did_ go well…

              She shivered.

              There was, of course, a third option. That uncertain mix of right and wrong: Sansa gets into this _thing_ , earns her money, and gets caught before she can ask Myranda to help her out. If Sansa was lucky, the wife would let her go with the warning to never touch her husband again. If Sansa wasn’t lucky, the wife would tell Sansa’s parents, have them fly down from Winterfell, scold her, _and then_ kill her for touching her husband.

              Sansa supposed she would just need to be very, very careful.

              Her sigh was deep enough to call the winds outside to shake the trees. This was _dumb_ and _reckless_ and not something she would do. Ever. Who was this Sansa reflected off of the phone? Certainly not the Sansa she was to her parents, and definitely not the Sansa she was before she came to uni. The fact she was stood here _considering_ it said exactly what kind of influence Myranda was to her.

              She first typed _Hi_ . Replaced it with _Hello_ . Replaced that with _Remember me from dinner tonight?_ Erased it all.

              The phone clattered on top of the counter, mixed with a deep groan. _How in the seven hells am I supposed to start this?_ Should she bother with the platitudes? Go straight into asking what she’d get in return?

              Her fingernails _tap-tap-tapped_ on the screen. The cursor blinked back at her.

              There was no way Sansa was going to get through having a secret sugar daddy if she couldn’t even text him to start it.

              This was hopeless.

              Sansa looked up, surprised to find Myranda gone. Not gone. Sansa turned at the sound of the front door clicking open. “Randa.” She called out before Myranda disappeared. “Are you...sure about this?” It was a pointless question: Myranda had been more than clear where she stood. Maybe Sansa was hoping Myranda would tell her what Sansa _should_ be telling herself: _You’re right; just throw it away and forget it ever happened_.

              As if.

              Myranda turned on the threshold. She’d applied a fresh coat of lipstick, and the stark hallway light made her eyeshadow look severe. Like she was a woman who knew what she wanted from men, and how to get it.

              Not at all how Sansa felt.

              Myranda pretended to think on it, tilting her head back and forth. “Well, girl... _I’m_ a slut, so of _course_ I’d do it.” She said it with a shrug and a devilish smile. “But, Sans. If you really really _really_ don’t want to go through with it — and think on it before you say no, who knows how often sugar daddies pop up — ask him if he like brunettes. I’d be more than happy to take your place.”

              She winked, leaving Sansa alone with a fluttering in her stomach and an unknown man’s number.

****

[idk when I’m going to get the rest of this up, but hopefully soon!]

 

**Author's Note:**

> [idk when I’m going to get the rest of this up, but hopefully soon!]


End file.
